Making something look good.

Now the script that appears with this dog, and in the location where I have my question, is "I Make This Look Good."

What?

That weapon you wield under your chin?

Is that like some sort of doggy-hidden-blade that slides out to cut other doggies' necks?

Is it an extra jaw? Or an attempted jaw? It's not really a jaw and not really neck.

Hokie's got a Nacho-Neck!

It looks like it could make chewing motions at you; while the dog's mouth remains still! It's freakin' me out!!!

What IS that thing????

The Dispossessed

So… I’m sitting here thinking. (Yeah I know… “Uh Oh.”)

Two factors hypocrisy and righteousness.

I’m thinking, the later we strive for, and in so doing give rise to the former.

So I present this to you. “This” that will be the focus of my next up and coming sleepless night.

Today I had the occasion to come across (what I know at this point) about 13 dispossessed families. Their HUD or low-income apartment building completely burned. They are what we call the dregs of society, and not more than several of the recent homeless are downright criminals; verified, known, and in several cases, convicted.

We took part in making them though. All of us. You and I. The outcome is still the same. They all lost everything. Possessions (though in some cases pathetically meager by our standings), pets, memories… Everything is relative.

One part of me literally hoped the fire department let the place burn for awhile before trying to put it out. Anyone who dares to voice that they never deeply had such an equivalent feeling is completely full of shit, and shouldn’t even be reading any of my garbage to begin with. I don’t give a shit what kind of show you portray in public, I know these feelings still sit within us all. … Anyway, at one point I was literally wrestling with both sides of my conscience. One part was almost glad to see the shit-hole go up; the other side was at some almost furious odds at just WHY I wasn’t helping them more. So where does that put me? Where does that put us?

I’ve got a house that has enough room to assist at least a moderate size family for a short term period, especially this week (remainder of family on vacation), but I made no offer. I questioned my ethics at one point out loud, because this shit was really starting to play with my head. As usual, as soon as I said it out loud I knew I made a mistake. (Was like the Godfather scenes… “Never let anyone know what you’re thinking!”)

The Red Cross and (last I heard) Salvation Army had assistance flowing into the area. These agencies, once rolling, are like a fucking freight train full of so much stuff you could start working on building a small empire for several hundred people. Though I still can’t figure the OVER-obsession with blankets. Ya know… and while we’re on the subject, couldn’t they like cut the numbers of them blankets in half and perhaps acquire the softer cottony ones, perhaps in a pastel color of sorts? I’m not selling them short… just making light of their blankets. These are good, helpful people that almost obsessively like to saturate disaster incidents. … Argh… Beware the Volunteers!!! Their ulterior motives and drives are often more trouble than their assistance warrants. (I sorta like that… although volunteers might throw eggs at me for it.)

My mind wanders around. My point is that these people received help; more food than they get daily, and no doubt much better; a clean place to sleep; attention from do-gooders. So why fret?

I don’t know.

Where do you draw a line? Where do you step in? When do you step in?


I dunno if I’ll actually blog this or not. If I do, I’ll keep its integrity. I try to avoid posting the “I” this and “I” that writings. They are usually born of my own therapeutic writing sessions, which help me develop reasoning and (with luck) a little wisdom. My head is thinking on this stuff too quickly and too much for me to even write straight; so I’ll have to read this one back later.


I sat outside for awhile. Its very quiet this evening. Heat lightening flashed noiselessly over the mountains to the west. I still listened for some type of answer, but didn’t receive one. I found more that endless contradictions mounted without end. So why blog this entry at all. Maybe to presently-historically put forth that all is not goofy, senseless shit in the Darkgarden, but something more intense. Then I have to ask why I would feel the need to post such a thing… and again… the contradictions surmount my current reasoning.

So… I’m’a just post this sucker. As my writings have stated repetitively, it is what it is.

Flavorings

"With 100% Natural Lime Flavor!"

"With Natural Cherry Flavoring"

"Natural Flavorings" (we don't even specify of what)

So tell me. What does all that mean?
I've been briefly thinking on this, this fine evening. Thinking... then laughing at the ensuing responses the process enveloped.

So lets say I am sitting around the house, bored, nothing going on, everyone away, say, on vacation or something, and I decide to eat a whole fucking bushel of blueberries. Yeah, man... You heard me. I'm'a eat a whole fuckin' bushel of them blue sum-bitches.

Right.

So now I got this gut full of blue goo; natural blueberries. All stewin away down there. And you KNOW that shits gonna be stewin' right too.

MMM.

Now... All that natural blueberry goodness is stewing and brewing, but damn, ain't I thirsty! Good way to quench some thirst... Water. Not any kind of water. I'm'a have me some water flavored with some NATURAL lemon! A whole gallon with about 6 whole fuckin' lemons in it. Hells yes! 6 all natural, yellow, glowin', shinin', gleamin' ... lemons!!!

MMM.

So lets say some time then goes by. Perhaps a sports game is on and DC United is perhaps losing a game they shouldn't be losing to... oh... Houston for instance. In disgust, I get a hunger pang. I mean.. heck.. it was just blueberries n' water. I need some substance right?

Fox's pizza, baby. Yes. Wings. Chicken wings... with.. what could ONLY be NATURAL chicken flavor!!! Laws yes!!! WOOHOO!!! Natural chicken wing eatin' mutha' fucka'! YES YES!

MMM.

Right.

So now we got all these NATURAL FLAVORINGS going to town, right? I'm the healthiest mo'fo' around brutha.

....

but...

At about 3:00 in the morning... I'm not feeling too healthy.

Yeah..

OH YEAH!
Bubblin' Cruel! Right? To be expected isn't it?

Ok then....

So the inevitable takes place... but... I save it.
Yeah... See.... Here's the reasoning:

My Cruel now contains 100% Natural Flavoring! Yes! YES!!! SEE?!!!

Now... I'm'a sell that shit!!!

The moral... ... ??? ....


Perhaps you should think just what it is in the Natural Flavoring you're eating.

Of course.. this is just a quick passing thought.

Now... Go get yo'self some desert... with blueberry flavoring in it!

Mr. Anthony James Makin' It Work!

All you little birds better lock up tight'

Coz there's a foul owl on the prowl tonight...

Hey, little lark, get out of the dark.

Foul owl on the prowl.

Cute little jay, stay out of his way.

Foul owl on the prowl.

You just might be the quail that he'll tail.

Foul owl on the prowl.You just might be the swaller he'll foller.

Foul owl on the prowl.

If you hear him hoot, scoot.

If you pass his tree, flee.

If you catch his eye, fly.

Don't wait to say 'goodbye'.

He's got a yen for a purty little hen.

Foul owl on the prowl.

He's hungry for a chick, so get home quick.

Foul owl on the prowl.

Foul owl on the prowl.

Foul owl on the prowl.

Me and Mr. I

Do not consider using your next scheduled Magnetic Resonance Imaging session to try out new and innovative ways to quietly meditate and enjoy a new peaceful experience.

Now if you have already been through a visit to Mr. I, then you already know this, or are in imbecile, or are possibly visiting Mr. I for some type of brain injury.

My story begins with that stalker Billy Zane! It seems that no one in my family understood my dilemma, and never bothered to look out the window when I would come up from the basement to gaze outside and see him standing across the street waving at me! Had they done so, I believe that my own Sno-boyz would not have petitioned the very courts where I present cases, to have my own well being analyzed. So in accordance with a lawful order from said court, I made a trek to Petersburg, West By God to have a visit with Mr. I and have him scan my brain.

…

Ok. Actually I had to go for one for a long standing shoulder injury that is progressively getting worse, but I thought the brain scan sounded cooler.


So for one reason or another, I guess I never actually asked anyone what the experience with Mr. I would be like; so I sort of filled my own blanks.

I was asked if I was nervous about going for it. I didn’t take that as any type of cue, as the person asking has some major claustrophobia going on, and I knew you got shoved into some tube type thing. With that in mind, my mind set was to use the visit to Mr. I as an almost spiritual experience. To listen to the soothing music they pipe you through soft, plush headphones and meditate. I thought that with these new frequencies being shot through my head and bouncing around in there, that I might experience some insightful epiphany or something.

The time comes and I am escorted out to this trailer, outside of the Petersburg hospital. No shit. They come and get you in the x-ray area, then walking you down a couple halls, out the back door, and up these industrial metal steps into a trailer. There I was seated in a chair, looking through this doorway into the other room where the previous victim was completing her visit. I knew it was a “her” because her keys, purse and cell phone were laying right in front of my on this counter. (Well, that and of course looking at her exit the room after her visit.)

Bear in mind at this point, as I was watching this gals visit with Mr. I, I didn’t hear shit, aside of some low soothing machine sounds. Like a soft purring generator way in the back, and the cool circulating air of very clean filtration. Everything was quite clean and in order, as a matter of fact. Everything in its place and proper… except for that gals personals seated before me. They were soiled. She was sodden with harshness in her life. I knew it. I could tell by the purse. By the smell of the fake leather; by the way her cell phone was contained in the little side compartment. She was in the habit of withdrawing the phone from the compartment often, as the clasping area was worn much more than the remainder of the purse. She was not the most well kempt of persons, her key ring much too stained to be gazed upon too long. I’ll digress here, though pathetically I could go on for quite a bit longer.

The male and female nurse-types at the helm were resplendent in crisp hospital pastels. Very clean. Very sterile. I would eat lunch with them and not give it a second thought, though I don’t think I would talk to them much.

When the first victim of Mr. I emerged, I realized she too had come for a brain scan of some sort. Her blackened eye served nothing more then sealing my beliefs formed upon my brief perusal of her personals. I almost asked her, “What the heck happened to you?!” but the never-changing whoosh of fresh, sterile air spoke first to me: “Shhhhhhh now you never mind. Shhhhhhhh. Your turn to come see Mr. I. Shhhhh.”

The gal gathered her things and left without any words exchanged with the nurse-types.

They soon escorted me into the room and had me lay upon Mr. I. The cleanliness of the nurse-types and the whoosh of non-scented air now had me a but unnerved. They affixed some attachment upon Mr. I that suggested my injured shoulder would be inserted into, and when requested to do so, as if transfixed by some spell I thrust my shoulder in harshly, lest anything less causing some sort of computer error in the analysis.

Pain shot through my shoulder and arm, as I ground my shoulder in harder, making sure it was affixed tightly. The nurse-types gazed at each other, silently asking the other, “What is this retard doing?” Then said aloud, “Umm. You just need to rest your shoulder in there.”

Jokes on them nurse-types. I shoved that sucker in there. They weren’t gonna have to do this twice. I didn’t want anything to be messed up so I ground it into the shoulder sleeve one more time.

They instructed me to be still and that things would take about 15 minutes. They placed a set of headphones on me, but something was wrong. They weren’t comfortable. They got something wrong… and… no… oh no! Oh HELL NO!... Someone switched the music output or something. The nurse-types surely wouldn’t have me inserted into that contraption with shit like Captain & Tennille playing! Would they?!!

My eyes bugged out while, like some mechanized phallic appendage (with a shoulder), I was inserted into the narrow opening… Trying to find a happy place.

Visually all I saw was the white interior of the steel shaft I had been thrust into. A single blue stripe ran down the length of the tube above my head. I closed my eyes and tried to meditate, blocking out the music and concentrating on the quiet hiss of machinery.

It was working. Though not what I planned for, I felt that I would have no trouble

KA-CHUNK!!!!!!!

“Ahhhh! WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!!!”

My planned excursion of meditation and relaxation blew apart, as this now heathen, steel vagina came to life. Ka-Chunking and rattling and zip-zapping; very loudly and over and over. My breathing was now almost panicked, and it took everything I could muster to lie still.

All our technology and ability to view the most specific of internal areas, and it has to be done with Captain & Tenille, a cold steel vagina and this jack-hammer of a noise???

At the end of my 15 minutes (which felt like an hour), they extruded me from that monster that is Mr. I. With a screaming shoulder, deaf ears and lowered IQ from Captain & Tennille I stumbled down the iron steps into the steamy, overwashed sunshine, feeling like I escaped the clutches of Baron Von Frankenstein.

Billy Zane Won't Leave Me Alone

Ran into Billy Zane walking through town. I saw him coming from a fair distance away. I don’t really get out much because I generally don’t like people. So when my eyes laid upon Billy Zane, that familiar shot of slight dread leaped from my gut. Man, I don't wanna be talkin' to no one right now.

It was too late, I already made eye contact. We still had to be about 25 yards away from each other, but I knew it would be one of those moments you find yourself approaching a person in the opposite direction and commence that really strange dance; inevitably and clumsily coming to a stop in front of each other, continue the dance, before literally smashing into each other before passing by.

15 yards. I could feel it coming. Pre-planning I started to favor the traditional right side, but at 10 yards knew it wasn’t going to matter. Billy Zane’s teeth were shining like beacons. He was still looking at me. Billy Zane’s piercing eyes were looking right at me and he was smiling!

Fuck that. I crossed the street through a gap in the highway traffic. It was right on Main Street, so no one was going very fast. I continued along my journey, wondering what Billy Zane was doing walking down the main avenue of Romney when I heard the scuffing of nice shoes upon loose street gravel. Glancing behind me I was shocked to see Billy Zane completing a moderate jog across Rt. 50… Where… it seemed… he was now following me.

“Oh man. How great is this?” I asked to no one in particular. All I wanted to do was get out in the nice hot sun and get in a bit of walking. Like I said, I don’t do it often so I was a little displeased upon my first glance upon those perfect white teeth of his grinning loudly behind me.

My pace increased a bit, and thought a more spirited step would perhaps dissuade Billy Zane from continuing his endeavor. His step also increased to match my own, and his shoes, those flat-bottomed beautiful brown loafers of his sounded perfect. Hypnotic. I could hear the suave in his gait. I looked back again. Damn! Billy Zane was heading in my direction looking really cool and sounding cooler!

I stopped and turned on him. He had also stopped and was turned slightly with a leg raised upon a concrete stoop adjusting an already perfectly adjusted sock. His smile broadened. I thought his face would crack open. His hair bounced perfectly in the light breeze.

A horn blared briefly and a loud voice boomed, “Jalapeño! On a st’eeek!!!”

“Hi Dillard,” I replied slightly annoyed. Dillard knew it wasn’t at him. He always manages to make me laugh and he knew that. Dillard is our city police chief; a gregarious and fair man.

“I wanted to let you know that I got the search warrant for that pill-house we were talking about last week. You wanna come out and have some fun tonight with that?”

Happy at the thought of kicking a door in, I said, “Oh hells yeah. Always into some crazy shit like that man.”

“Good! Good deal! Hey John. That Billy Zane adjusting his socks next to the library there?” Dillard noticed.

“Yeah. That’s him,” I responded slightly annoyed.

“Look at the head on him! He’s got a better head-a-hair than that Pamela Anderson gal! ‘Cept she’s got better ta-ta-tooies!” which he declared before launching into a barrage of laughter.

“Gimme a yell when you wanna hook up on that shit. I'm down with it anytime,” I said trying to turn the conversation.

“Oh,” he added suddenly, “and a very happy… a-Jalapeño! … On a st’EEEK!!!” He then sped off, adding a quick blast of his siren.

Frustrated I glanced back at Billy Zane who was standing there grinning.

“Billy Zane. Go away please,” I simply told him. He smiled.

I returned to my walk, trying to ease my thoughts away from that of Billy Zane. I thought about kicking in that door later that night. I was fantasizing about actually finding more than a couple dozen OC’s this time, when I heard perfect steps behind me. Billy Zane was once again in pursuit.

I turned again, hoping to end all of this.

“Billy Zane, would you please st…” but I was cut off.

“Hi. It was Tombstone that I loved the feel of the theatre in the part I…”

“Billy Zane, please stop following me,” I cut in over his oration.

“Yes, but, when we were making the actual film I became so infatuated with these cheese nubs that they had on the…”

“Billy Zane, please go back across the street and leave me alone. I don’t know what you’re doing here in Romney, but this is all just wrong,” I pleaded.

”My good man, I say, I was just telling you of these cheese nubs and…” he was ranting as I quickly jogged away.

I rounded a corner and headed down a side-street.

Judge Tillman was outside working in her yard and my heart lightened. I always had the deepest respect for Judge Tillman so I yelled over a meaningful “hello” and told her how nice her flowers were looking. I love the feeling and smell of a nicely tended garden. Walking by the judge’s house on any summer’s day was always a pleasant event. The aged feel of that nicely tendered yard was comforting, and her gardens were always immaculate.

“Hi John,” she replied with a genuine smile. She glanced aside then back to me. “I see you have Billy Zane following you.”

“Yes judge. He won’t leave me be.” I rolled my eyes. “I’ll see ya later Judge! I gotta keep moving!” and I continued my journey… or escape.

I heard Billy Zane start to say something to Judge Tillman, but she was already heading into the house. He momentarily paused, then unfortunately continued upon my trail.

“Hi John!” Billy Zane said loudly. This cause me to start a moment, and I looked back at him. A slight taste of … what? … Fear?! flowed through me at that moment. As I gazed at Billy Zane I could see that his shirt was slightly untucked now. His eyes remained bright and cheery, and his teeth perfect, but there was just the slightest discomforting look regarding the garment upon his chest.

Slightly untucked. Peculiar.

“Billy Zane! You stop following me now!” I said with authority, “Go on. Go on now!” Laughing to myself I wondered if my voice had the slightest, nervous crack in it.

I walked quickly, and herd behind me those perfect steps. An outstanding symbiosis of gravel and shoe leather adding to that which was the most perfect Mr. Billy Zane.

“Hi John!” he said; I winced.

I ran one of my credos through my head at that point: Gentleman walk, but never run. This is not to say that in my employment as a peace officer that I would not pursue a brigand with the utmost haste. Nor in sport would I ever strut about a tennis court with pomp and air about me, but that in one’s every day events, no matter what, there should be no reason to rush movement. As this ran through my head I noticed that credo slowly dissolving away into a more animalistic instinct.

Oh dear. I chuckled unto mine self. I am in a fight or flight panic with Billy Zane!

“Hi John!!” was the only response that greeted my quickening thoughts.

“Billy Zane! You go away now! Go talk to someone else!” I ordered.

Daring to glance back I thought I saw a slight bead of sweat upon his forehead. The shirt remained untucked, and his gig-line was not out of alignment. I thought of my cell phone. Keeping up a brisk walk I snapped the send button to the last call I had received, and saw the phone appropriately dialing that of my chief deputy’s cell phone.

I kept walking, and kept keeping note of perfect pursuit. It seemed like 30 minutes of rings before the chief deputy’s authoritative voice proclaimed that he was oh-so-sorry he missed my call, and what I should do since he missed it. Knowing he would never understand my predicament, and not knowing what dread was ahead… baby… I confusingly told him that I was being stalked at a fast pace by a very dull Billy Zane throughout the confines of the City Of Romney. I hit the end button, and tried to think.

“Fuck!” I said, and I was also now sweating a good bit. I kept up my pace and gauged my situation. I head the pursuing steps, but they were changing. Weren’t they? Like an athlete nursing the slightest of injured ankles; just the slightest change. As I looked back my breath retreated for a second, as I saw Billy Zane’s shirt was almost entirely out from the confines of his belted waist. A tassel on his left shoe had been ripped off. There were hairs out of place! He smiled still, but… the grimace grew.

“Hi John!!!” hit me like it had come from a gun.

No longer a gentleman I settled into a jog. I pulled my cell phone out once again and called Sheriff Stillwagon. Nod Stillwagon was in his first term as my boss, but had my total respect. Besides, I figured that even though Nod might laugh his ass off at my situation, he would also be one of the least likely to throw it up in my face at a later time when get-togethers with other officers ultimately result in toilet-humor, war stories.

“Hi John!!!”

“Shut up Billy Zane!!!” I said and dialed.

“Hey! What’re you up to?!” Nod answered happily.

“Nod. Brutha’. I got Billy Zane fuckin’ stalkin’ my ass all over Romney! It’s fuckin’ nuts bru’!” I was breathing a bit heavily now.

Nod predictably launched into a wild fury of laughter. Barely getting words out between his guffaws, I did hear, “I just got off the phone with Magistrate Tillman … “

The signal was going. I could only hear bits and pieces of words and mostly laughter.

“… garden! … back in the house … Oh … Main Street earlier and then Dillard … the 7-11!!!” and the signal was lost in a hail of giggles.

“Fuck!”

“Hi JOHN!!!” Billy Zane greeted me as he closed the gap between us.

Good Morning Everyone!

Good morning!

Good morning to music!

Its gonna be a great day!